


Like A Dream

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: Don’t ask my name, love just call me whateverI’ll be who you want me to beCities this big have a way to destroy meSo don’t you be holding on to meI’m already fading like a dreamEven bad guys have bad days and bad thoughts.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. One Day I Will Wake Up All Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on Tumblr at a bad point several days back, and I don't know why my best writing comes out when I'm having ideations galore, but I'm guessing it's because I'm more in touch with my emotions then which is something extremely difficult for me to do in real life. Borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression, and CPTSD all suck, so don't try this at home. 
> 
> Part Two is gifted. <3
> 
> All of these songs and lyrics belong to Rebecka Reinhard off her Cherry Trees album. Great music.

_I used to dream about love_

_Of the tall, dark mysterious kind_

_I had it all figured out_

_Even what we would argue about_

“What the fuck do you mean _dysfunctional_ , Michael?” a terrified voice trembles as it raises slightly at the bar. “I thought you were just bullshitting about all of that when you said--”

“Will you calm the fuck down, T?” the one opposite from it hisses as it chastises, eyes darting around carefully to make sure that no one is watching. “And you know _exactly_ what the hell I meant. How else am I supposed to put it? That’s all we’ve ever been is dysfunctional, Trevor. Our whole relationship is fucked up and has been from the start.”

Honeydewed eyes water as they drop down to stare into the glass of scotch sitting on the fake wood veneer -- just as everything in this godforsaken place, this whole city, is fucking fake -- and hands clutch miserably to the sides, not quite sure if they should bring the liquid to his parched lips and find relief or if they’re still shaking too much to be trusted with that simple task. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he says, thickening his voice with every bit of malice he’s feeling even if it still has to be somewhat forced for the man next to him, “I _own_ this goddamn place, so I can get as loud as I want to because people don’t give a fuck about the watered-down booze. They _care_ about gratification which I give them.” Finally, he decides upon a quick gulp of courage before the next words are said. “And if our relationship has been fucked up from the start, then whose fault is that, Mikey?” The man next to him turns in his stool somewhat, facing away, but he can see the pink that spreads along the cheeks of that damned walking, talking, breathing, and shitting conundrum. 

Even now, Trevor can see that just calling him by that old preferred nickname gets him redder in the face than a blushing virgin on her wedding night. 

But why? Is it because the man next to him has ever actually had the capacity to love him the way that he, in turn, would wrap the stars around the moon for this man? Or is it embarrassment? Constipation? Hell, that last one would make more sense. Trevor feels often that Michael is nothing more than one huge body filled with constipated emotions and bullshit just waiting to drop, but he keeps right on clenching his asscheeks in hopes that it all will never come out. 

“I never asked you to follow me, T.”

There’s a hollow laugh that holds no humor behind it because the last drop of it he thinks he once had within him went down into the fake grave of this fake fucking snake next to him. He knows he cried it out one of the many nights he drank by that headstone, made love to it with his hands and tongue, just trying to feel close to the body he’d dreamed was beneath it. 

But it turns out that Michael Townley really _was_ buried in that hole or at least, in the truest sense he’d known him back in the day. He’s been left with this ghost next to him that carries his face, even if it’s grown older over the past decade. It would be so much easier to pretend that he doesn’t know who the fuck this is before him than to be stuck with the reality that he’s probably never meant anything to him. He is just another person in the ever-growing list of people Michael uses, and he, himself, is just another fucking person who lets himself be used by those he loves, and holy fuck, he wants to rage, but even that...that has been replaced.

He feels empty, so he chooses to feel nothing at all. 

“You did, you clueless bastard,” he mumbles into his hand as his chin lays perched upon it. His head aches, he’s fucking exhausted, and it feels as if an elephant has been laid to rest on him. “You didn’t need to say the exact words. It was the way you acted. It’s the way you’ve always acted.” He closes his eyes, desperate for the tears to go away. “So fucking fake, it’s no wonder you love this shithole so much.”

“You gonna nag me some more? Jesus, I have Amanda at home for that. This is supposed to be fun,” Michael complains from beside him, looking about as disinterested as a lover can get. “If you’d rather, I can get just get one of the girls to--”

Trevor grabs his wrist without a second thought, and two deep blue eyes almost as dark as coals in the dim lights glower over him. The old familiarity of their relationship comes back so quickly sometimes, and he wears it like a comfortable second skin, so he cowers somewhat before he removes his offensive fingers and curls them to his side into a fist that struggles to maintain just one color instead of turning different shades of blood reds and ghostly whites. “No...no, don’t fucking go. Please.” He doesn’t have to say _I’ll do it instead_ because Michael nods knowingly anyway and guides them toward the managerial offices. 

He wonders, would he have ever found anyone else? Did he _deserve_ anyone else?

_You took up most of my time_

_Non-existing you still filled my mind_

_There was no room left for those_

_Who were too real, too palpable_

This life that he’s struggled to build, this business to alleviate the boredom and loneliness he felt when Michael stepped out of it so long ago, was something he did because it seemed like at one time there would be something waiting there for him at the end of it all. Like a _good job!_ from someone or even in his dreams, there would be Michael’s ghost welcoming him with open arms, happy at his achievements, glad that he had managed on without him. 

But there wasn’t. There isn’t. There’s just this guy he still loves for whatever damn reason who borrows the mannerisms, body, and face of his former beloved. This figure who haunts his thoughts, who only seems to need him when a release is wanted and needed but isn’t careful of how badly the man giving the offering is in need of just a little feigned tenderness, not just the fucking that comes from their candid meetings. 

He sits on the edge of the cab of the Bodhi, gazing up at the fading sunset and faintly wondering how many of these he’s seen over his lifetime. The sun seems as if it’s consuming the shoreline of the sea, and he feels his heart is gathered in there somewhere, along with the bits of his soul that are left from the old days. 

He’s tired of being dysfunctional, a monster, a psycho, an asshole, a fucktoy, a drug runner, a hired gun, someone’s lackey, the crazy Canuck -- any one of these things. The happiest he ever was before the waste of time that has been affectionately labeled Michael was when he was in the air because the skies are freedom. 

Both in life and from life. 

He could do it, and he’s thought about it more often than he would ever dare to tell anyone out loud. He could get clearance to go to Canada and fly into a fucking mountain before anyone had even half of a clue. Not even Lester. 

It takes too much planning and effort though, and he’s become so exhausted in just the short year that Michael has returned like Lazarus from some goddamn pit. That’s what guns are for, even for guys like him who aren’t as good of a shot as _others_ , he laments. 

But there was one day in this lifetime where he was the best shot in the world when it _mattered_ , and that’s the most important thing to him as he grips the orange handle beside him in the truck, reassuring himself that it’s there. 

Turning on his phone, he types up a detailed email to Ron, giving explicit directions on what to do with his affairs, tells him he can keep TPI and split it between him, Wade, and Chef, so its future rests in their hands, and it’s probably the first time he’s actually been civil instead of demanding, he realizes, so he thanks Ron for being there and following him blindly…

...and then admonishes him for following him in the first place because that’s how _he’d_ made his grand mistake.

The next is a text to Frank, telling him to be a good kid and find his _own_ way, but after a moment’s pause, he begs him to be a _real_ friend to Lamar, to not forget where he came from on his way to the top via his career-adopted father, Michael.

The last one he sighs at, hovering his finger over the name. 

Is it worth it? Does he care?

He doesn’t know what to even send.

_But as my fantasies grew_

_I found myself bored with you_

_Until one day I had enough_

_Of this love who refused to show up_

He settles on: _im gonna do it u kno_.

With a freshly opened Pisswasser in his left hand, he bides his time, counting stars, daydreaming about what life could have been like if it had ever been remotely easy for him, and after an hour passes, he wonders if Michael even understands his text, so he types up another and presses send: _got a flare gun_.

After another fifteen minutes: _u do kno wut its 4?_

The darkness of night has slipped into his mood just as easily as he’s slipped from his supposed best friend’s mind.

Where did it all go wrong? A question he’s asked himself over and over and over and fuck, it’s been like this for years. He’s been stuck like this for years, stuck wishing for the past, wanting the present, and being afraid of the future. 

The time grows longer, and the night grows colder, seeping into his skin. It’s become painfully apparent that he’s no longer needed. Possibly never even wanted at all. He’s been replaced, just like he’s always been replaced because Michael’s never been honest with him or himself when it comes to what he really wants. 

He thought he would burn with the rage of a thousand suns when he got to this point, but there’s nothing there filling him except the same hurt and pain he’s accustomed to from withdrawing. And he smiles. He supposes that in some lovesick way, Michael’s been the best drug of them all, and he’s so very addicted. 

He sends a final text: _i loved u then n i love u still_. After hesitating, he adds: _id do it again, all 4 u_.

Because he can’t kid himself like Michael does. There were happy times, and there was the ghost of a dream where Michael needed and loved him just as much.

As he eases the handle into his hand, he wonders if he’ll smell as badly as the guy from memories ago. Will it burn as badly as his heart already burns? Will it be any worse of a fiery feeling than what is already pulsating within him?

There’s no rehab offered for getting over Michael Townley or whatever fake names he dreams up for himself. And there’s only one way to deal with this addiction.


	2. You Keep Me Together Like No One Has Ever Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard but don't apologize  
> We all fail miserably sometimes  
> I’ll try but I will not succeed  
> That's fine just don't think less of me  
> I can't stop you from crying  
> So let's wait it out  
> You keep me from dying  
> On the inside
> 
> From Shining Star by Rebecka Reinhard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I couldn’t leave the other one the way it is since I’m still here, so this my solution to One Day You Will Wake Up All Alone. A way of righting a wrong.
> 
> Dedicated to Hugo with love for being basically the closest thing to a best friend I have in my life. 
> 
> The title and lyrics come from Otherwise by Rebecka Reinhard.

_I'm alright_

_But my eyes say otherwise_

_Stay a while_

_I'm not this hopeless all the time_

_Let's go out_

_Can't stand these days much less these nights_

_I want to hide_

_But you keep clinging to my mind_

The chill of the night air brushes against skin and awakens him with a start. He swears he was just burning and melting like some long-forgotten fallen star, but his mind is still reeling from the cusp of a dream gone wrong. Panting slightly as he waits for his heart to stop beating so erratically and loudly in his ears, he realizes by the glowing face on his Casio watch that he fell asleep at some point. 

He's used to being rapidly drained from the meth highs, but he can count on both hands where he's been so dragged down by emotion in his life that it's like drowning in the Alamo Sea. He can still feel the pull of it like waves lapping at his brain trying to suck him back under. 

The notification light on his phone is blinking rapidly, trying to draw his attention back to reality and toward it. A quick scrolling through shows him that he has texts, phone calls, and even emails from multiple people. He can’t even recall seeing this much shit thrown at his phone ever unless it’s from hostile sources that _may_ or _may not_ be his fault. 

Franklin: hey dawg things ok? 

Lamar: YO creepy ass ol dude gotta pick up ur phone 

Ron: Uh hey boss, that Michael guy is out here shouting about you

Lester: Do you think you could answer certain people before I get a migraine, and he has a stroke?

He counts 23 texts along with 17 missed calls from Michael. His phone has never blown up with this much attention, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. The part of him that is used to being on his own wants to chuck it somewhere out into the sea, but he actually needs the damn thing for business now.

That, and there’s this tiny part that craves attention, even if it’s mostly bad, from the person blowing up his phone. It’s the part he wishes he could eat away from himself, filled with the emotions of a boy who didn’t get enough affection from anyone. Still hasn’t. Not nearly enough.

He’s not a person who cries easily, never has been. Anyone can play at being dramatic, but the last time he cried real bitch tears about life? Probably for a long while after Michael _died_.

It leaves a funny sour taste in his mouth, still burns and hurts even now. He wonders if it’ll ever stop being a sore subject for him. Fuck knows Michael wants to move on -- _has_ moved on -- but he...if they never meant anything to each other, if he was nothing more ever than just another notch on Michael’s long belt of screwing around and mind games, then surely he’d get it as his friend? How hard it is to eat emotions? It’s harder than any kind of eating he can think of, including forays into cannibalism. 

Each text and call is a blow to the mangled organ that exists as his heart, the words pouring off the screen serve as a testament to what a fucking horrible person he is -- and oh _buddy_ , is he the worst, he _knows_ it -- but he’s never hurt those close to him. He’s never been able to, he can’t even really hurt Michael now as much as he wants to lash out. 

But here he is, hurting him anyway, and that’s finally when he cries for the first time in years. The first hot trickle down his cheek surprises him. It’s like getting shanked out of nowhere -- and dammit, he has been, so he _knows_ \-- and he really doesn’t know what to do with it. 

When he thinks of Michael mourning _him_ for years, it doesn’t have the desired effect he thought it would have when he’s daydreamed about it. He’d always thought that this would be the coup de grâce to being cast aside like nothing more than shit on a shoe, but all he sees are watery blue eyes when he closes his, and it’s not what he wants at all. 

He just wants to feel like he matters somewhere in Michael’s life.

And now it’s evident he does. And he still doesn’t know what to do with it. 

It’s easier to run and hide like he’d been forced to do as a kid to survive. It doesn’t mesh well with the person he’s become, but the panic button is still there regardless, dusty and rusting with age -- there nonetheless. 

With one humongous heavy sigh, he swallows his embarrassment and pain before hitting the call button on the screen...and is surprised when it rings closeby. Or maybe he shouldn’t be. 

Despite his feelings about _certain topics he’d rather not think about right now_ , he realizes nothing has changed. Michael has always been somewhere nearby throughout the whole time they’ve known each other, even when they haven’t been on great terms. It isn’t even _funny haha_ how they ended up so close to each other for nine years and yet so far away. 

It’s some kind of weird fucking fate if he could ever allow himself to believe in that shit. 

“Trevor!” the voice screams in his ear, almost taking out his eardrum, and he grins in spite of himself. Nothing really _has_ changed. “Where the fuck are you? I’ve been searching everywhere for you, you asshole!”

“Not hard enough,” he laughs, shaking his head because he thinks he can see his oblivious old friend trampling through sand and junk, trying desperately to not trip, “because I heard the ringtone. Why the fuck do you insist on Billy Joel?”

“Are you saying you don’t go to extremes?” 

And their playful banter is back. “Me? You’ve been an awful moody bastard lately. I was thinking of changing yours to Cold As Ice, but maybe Toxic by Britney is more your speed right now.”

Suddenly, he’s face to face with the one person in this lifetime who can make him feel so many things at once, and each one of them is confusing as fuck, but they also make him feel alive when everything else feels so dull. 

Michael grips his wrist; first, with so much strength and anger that Trevor is sure it’s going to break, but he doesn’t care because he feels he deserves anything coming to him. “Shouldn’t that be more _your_ speed, you mean??” Then just as soon as it happens, it’s gone and replaced by a gentler touch, and when he looks up, he can see an anguished shininess in blue eyes, just like his daydreams. “Why, why would you do that? Why would you even think of saying shit like that to me?”

The shame colors his face, and he is thankful as fuck that the darkness of night hides it as he looks away, trying his damnedest to appear nonchalant. “ _You_ said we’re dysfunctional.”

It always came easier for Michael to wear his emotions on his sleeve even if he could still be the most chilling person on the planet next to...well, himself, and he’s never been sure if he should be envious or feel empathy. As Michael grabs both hands and looks into his eyes, he still isn’t sure, but he feels like he’s somewhere close to burning again. “I say a lot of shit you don’t listen to so why the hell did you hone in on that? Just because we are doesn’t mean I hate you.”

Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the night air, maybe it’s that the darkness brings him so much closer to nostalgia tonight -- or maybe it’s all of it, he thinks as he closes his eyes. “You should. You should hate me as much as everyone else fucking hates me.”

“Yeah, and you should hate me, but I _know_ you don’t no matter what comes out of your mouth.”

“Snake,” he chuckles, but there’s no humor behind it, just a wistfulness for simpler times, and his mind keys in on something Michael sent: _it’s always us together no matter what comes, just like I told you long ago_.

His mouth forms a small _oh_ in recognition, and he clings to the man before him, relishes in the fact that beneath all of the expensive tastes, he still smells and feels very much like Michael Townley, and that’s comforting to his soul. 

And he begins to cry again, tries to apologize over and over even though he can’t make the words come out. He doesn’t know if he can kick his own ass, but goddamn, he sure wants to try for ever putting the hurt there behind those eyes that remind him of the sky on cloudless days or for placing the choked sob that he hears in his head buried beneath the words in those texts. 

He clutches the flare gun to his side, and while the thought process is still there, he sees Michael’s eyes widen, feels what he’s going to say in protest before he can even do it, and just _knows_ he can’t do it, so he throws the gun as far as he can, hearing its splash from about twenty yards away. 

It’s dysfunctional, it’s rage-inducing, it’s beautiful, and it’s often baffling, this friendship of theirs, but it’s him, it’s _them_ , and he needs it. It breaks his heart to be without it, in life or in death.

They sit together in companionable silence, neither one needing to say anything as their hands meet, watching as the dawn approaches slowly over the horizon.

It’s not everything, but it’s enough. 


End file.
